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“Don’t ever catch a train in Zaire, they can be up to three weeks late.” Matz’s warning echoed in my mind as a fresh wave of panic surged. “Nooo! We can’t go by train in Zaire!” I protested. But it was no use, the grinning brother did not understand a word of what we were saying. Again he pursed his lips and, while making a “Choo, choo” sound, vigorously moved his arms backwards and forwards against his body. Yes, we got the message, a train! It wasn’t that we didn’t understand, it was that we didn’t want to get on a train, certainly not in Zaire!
Don't ever catch a train in Zaire!
But, the more we shook our heads, the more the elaborate train impressions became. It was becoming apparent that we were going by train whether we liked it or not!
The day before, after the Protestant missionaries had left in the opposite direction, tinted windows of their Landcruiser closed to maximize the effects of the air con, it dawned on us that there was no turning back. We were in the middle of nowhere …no money, no map, no means of communication, following two smiling strangers and a bicycle down a track into the forest.
We might not have had language in common with these brothers, but we did have something, The New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. And for the next hour or so the conversation went along these lines:
(Judges 19:17) So the old man said: “Where are you going, and where do you come from?
Genesis 29:4 to which they said: “We are from Ha′ran.”
“S O U T H A F R I C A” said Simon loudly and very clearly, drawing a picture in the sand of the continent and prodding the lower part with his stick and then at the word Ha’ran in their well worn French French Bible, which had been produced from the tall brothers bag.
(Isaiah 44:28) ‘She will be rebuilt,’ and of the temple, ‘You will have your foundation laid.’”
“Bethel – Kinshasa” he added, in case they didn’t quite understand
(Deuteronomy 1:28) Where are we going up?
We asked, curious to know where they were taking us.
The beaming brother fumbled in his bible,
(Judges 19:18) and it is to my own house that I am going.
He explained, lifting his finger to indicate that he needed to read some more.
(Matthew 8:11) come and recline at the table
(Hebrews 13:1-2) Let YOUR brotherly love continue. 2Do not forget hospitality.
(John 12:2) Therefore they spread an evening meal .
He added with a smile.
The brother’s abode was humble to say the least, consisting of two huts surrounded by neatly swept sand and scratching chickens. Dozens of children peeped from around the sides of the mud and thatch structures. As we entered the property we were met by a middle aged woman wearing a traditional printed fabric blouse and “wrap around” of the same design, the end of which was twisted and tucked back into the waist band. She bobbed toward us, one hand outstretched while the other hand supported her upper forearm. She bobbed even lower as we shook her hand. A small child wearing nothing but a grubby tee shirt, who, evidently too scared to move, started to cry as we approached. Simon’s efforts to befriend the toddler, was met with even louder howls of terror.
Almost at once we were escorted into the first hut that had been transformed into a banquet hall of note. We stood for a second or two and marveled at the feast that had been laid out on a rickety table in the middle of the floor. Our host waved towards the laden table, “Karibu” he said with a smile. Two chair had been placed either side of the table. Unsure of the seating arrangement and eating protocol, we turned around inquire from our host, who had vanished into thin air. “What are we supposed to do?” I said, turning to an equally puzzled looking Simon. Unsure of cultural etiquette and custom, we decided to eat what we could, suppressing our own cultural urgings to get a few more chairs and invite the whole family to share in the meal. Ice cold beer brought only temporary relief from the heat and humidity of the evening.
After diner we were shown to the other hut, evidently the family’s sleeping quarters. In side we found two beds without mattresses, the wire mesh and springs the only signs of comfort. The drone of mosquitoes filled the room as we unrolled our sub zero quality “you never freeze to death in these” sleeping bags out on to the two beds. “At least we’re off the floor!” I mused, as a creeping thing scurried in the dim light of the candle. My shirt clung damply to my back and the sweat ran like rivers from my brow as I adjusted my sleeping bag, “I can’t sleep in this, I’ll die!” I exclaimed, gingerly lying down on top of my sleeping bag, careful not to get my elbow stuck between the springs of the bed.
The drone of the mosquitoes had reached a crescendo by the time Simon blew out the candle, “My sleeping bag is drenched in sweat” he moaned from the blackness.
“You always said you wanted a water bed!” I yelled over the roar of the mosquitoes.
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It was only when the huts started to rush past the window of the little plane did we realize the we were landing where we were supposed to land. Up until that moment the twin engine plane that belonged to the Protestant missionaries seemed intent on landing in the middle of nowhere. Our pimply pilot had been fiddling with dials and knobs whist talking into his mouth piece for the last 10 minutes or so of the flight from Lubumbashi, thus indicating his intention of putting his craft down somewhere. Where, we just couldn’t see from our cramped position behind the two front seats. It appeared as if we were landing in the bush itself!
Map of the Congo (Zaire)
The wheels of the little plane hit the dirt runway sending a cloud of dust into the air obscuring the huts, pigs and naked running children. A few minutes later the clinking of seat-belts and the flicking of little switches above the pilots head signaled the end of our fight to Kamina. The propeller appeared to spin backwards for a second as it came to a stop.
No sooner had we found the lever that released our seat belts than there were eager ground crew at the cabin door ready to extract us from our confines as quickly as possible. The jostling men at the window had us out of the plane before the pilot could shoo them away, each man eager to carry an item of luggage.
As we emerged from the plane and stretched our stiff limbs we surveyed our surroundings. At the side of the runway stood a brand new white Landcruiser with the Protestant Missions Logo printed on the front doors. Beside the Landcruiser, looking as equally expectant, stood two men and a black bicycle.
It became evident quite quickly that the two men and a bicycle was our reception committee. Their faces beamed full of white teeth as they acknowledged our recognition of the Watchtower they held aloft. We made our way to the waiting delegation and extended our hands to shake theirs, smiling and pointing to the Watchtower held by a tall brother with a field service bag. But, that was as far as the communication went! Yes, we had a lot in common with these brothers, but language, sadly, wasn’t on the list. We looked around in desperation for a translator. One of the Protestant Missionaries, a big American, ambled over, a bemused expression on his face and offered to translate.
“Your people say the truck has left without you.”. The American’s words struck me in the pit of my stomach and a wave of panic flooded up into my chest. “What!” I cried, “Why?”. Our translator turned to the brothers to relay my question, his French strongly accented with an American twang. “They say there is no space.” he returned with the explanation.
“But, what are we supposed to do now?” asked Simon, the panic rising in his voice. Our translator turned once again to the duo with the bike to enquire of their plan, the name badge on his white shirt twinkling as it caught the afternoon sun. There was an interchange, a shrug of the shoulders, followed by a fresh wave of panic. “What did they say! What did they say? ” I bleated, a lump sticking in my throat. “They say you should go with them and they will work something out” translated the American, casting a glance across at the two grinning brothers and their bicycle.“But listen….” he ventured, lowering his voice a little, “we have space at our missionary home, why don’t you come with us and you can catch the plane back tomorrow?” he added, his eyes shining at the sheer brilliance of the idea. After all…. two white boys in the middle of nowhere, can’t speak a word of French, with no money, what else were they going to do? Fait accompli, he reached towards our rucksacks. I shot a glance a Simon and caught his eye, the twinkle said it all!
“Nah, it’s OK, we’re going with our brothers” Simon said, getting to his rucksack before the American.
As we headed off on foot down the bush path leading to nowhere at the end of the runway, flanked by the two beaming brothers and their bicycle, I turned around in time to see the Landcruiser swinging off the runway to head in the opposite direction. The puzzled expressions on the protestant missionaries’ faces inside the air conditioned Cruiser said it all!
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Field Service in the sand
The old man on the horse peered down at me, squinting through the scratches across his taped together spectacles. “Dumela Raa.” I said to the old man by way of greeting. “Dumela Raa.” he replied. “O tsoga jang?” I asked, inquiring how he was. The formalities continued for some time before I was able to continue with my presentation.
The old man was sitting, legs dangling on either side of a rather lethargic looking horse of comparable age. A blanket cushioned his bony bottom from the sagging backbone of the aging beast. The geriatric perched aloft wore a tweed jacket that, at one time must have been fitting attire for a man of his station. The remains of the jacket, the only indication of the man’s dignity, were still worn with pride. I pondered the fact that the horse would have been as proud as the old man still was at some time in its distant past. The horse hung its grey muzzle sadly and prepared for the wait while his master chatted, settling its weight evenly.
Fleur, Ruth and Hannah
The old man’s glasses resembled the bottoms of two well worn coke bottles taped together with second hand cello tape. The glasses were tied around his head with a boot lace, in anticipation of a short trot on the part of the horse, as it might if harassed by a scrawny dog at its heels, or a group of jeering children with sticks.
With a reins of his horse and a stick in one hand he wrinkled up his nose, showing his top row of teeth as he brought the tract up to his chin with his free hand. The man peered down towards his chin through the area of glass with the least amount of scratches. I was beginning to wonder if he could see at all, when to my amazement he started to read aloud, although jerkily, as his eyes found their way between the obstacles etched across the lenses.
The old man, turned his gaze toward me, his nose still crumpled and his front teeth still protruding. I tried in vain to make eye contact, marveling at his ability to see his surrounds, “Would you like to live in the paradise shown here on the front cover” I asked, gesturing to my companion to translate into Kalaghadi. The old man’s gaze shifted again as he searched out the voice that spoke his dialect. After a few moments of discussion between the two men, my companion turned to me and said: “He says he already lives in a place that looks like this on the cover of the tract, but he says he does want a Bible.”
A long way to the next door
Well, that did it for me – do I give him a small print Bible, a large print Bible, or do I find one in Braille?
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“Don’t ever catch a train in Zaire, they can be up to three weeks late.” Matz warned us, scratching his head trying to figure out a way of getting us up to Kinshasa. While Matz pondered possibilities and logistics we recounted our adventure as far as Lubumbashi to Cathy as she made us lunch. The Swedish missionaries were eager to hear news from the outside world no matter the content.
Ave Kasai, lubumbashi
The missionary home in Lubumbashi was an old Belgian style building with dark tiled floors and dark wooden furniture, screens on the windows kept out the malaria carrying mosquitoes. Shoes outside the each door indicated a different culture and a new way of life. The unfamiliar sounds of central Africa drifted through the humid air – the rhythmic beat of the popular music with its Lingala lyrics blended with the Swahili of the passing street trade. Even the crowing cock sounded foreign, as we watched Cathy lay the table for 6. “It’s our cook day today.” she explained “The others are in their room, they have malaria” she added, offering an explanation for the 6 place settings at the table.
We had managed to get to Lubumbashi on our second attempt at crossing a rather chaotic Kasumbulesa border post. The Zairian customs official who held us up for hours in the hope of a bribe the first time waved us through without so much as a glance at our passports. “What’s the use!” the look on his face said it all, obviously not wanting to haggle for hours without reward.
Matz was still pondering the problem of getting two penniless South Africans to Kinshasa in one piece when Cathy called him to lunch.
“I have an idea” he ventured, half way through the meal, raising his fork aloft. Cathy had been telling us how they had been deported from Iran during the change in government there, and what life was like trying to preach the kingdom Message to those of the Muslim faith, when Matz let us know, by the raising of his fork, that he had been elsewhere, in thought, at least. “There is the society’s truck that left for Kinshasa two days ago, I am sure you will be able to catch up to it at Kamina and get a lift with it the rest of the way to Kin” he offered by way of a partial solution, “the problem is, stopping the truck, and getting you to Kamina.”
While we offered to help Cathy with the dishes and Matz’ share of the house work, the latter climbed into his much loved Land Rover to seek a solution to the rest of the problem. After an optimistic wave and a backfire the Swede swung the old yellow 2 series Landie out into the street and headed towards town along Avenue Kasai
A Yellow Landie
The afternoon’s cleaning activities were interrupted a couple of hours later by enthusiastic hooting at the gate, the running of the watchman, a plume of smoke and a roar of the Land Rover up along the side of the house as Matz returned, breaking hard as he rounded the corner into the back courtyard. The twinkle in his eye suggested that he had found a solution. “The Protestant Missionaries have a plane leaving for Kamina tomorrow morning!” he sung in gleeful triumph as he forced the door of the Land Rover open with a clunk from the sagging hinges.
The next morning, an adolescent looking pilot with teardrop sunglasses that wrapped around his ears, carefully packed our rucksacks into the belly of the twin engine plane that stood in facing the run down buildings that paraded along the side of the tarmac. After a stringent pre-flight check by the pimply pilot and his clip board we were ready to go. Soon our pilot was fiddling with dials and buttons whilst alpha, bravo, charley, deltaring into a mouth piece which extended out from the over sized headphones which now flattened his greasy hair. As he eased the little plane out on to the runway, a bony hand pulled back on a row of levers and we felt the plane gather momentum.
“It’s a good job HE knows where were going!” I shouted to Simon above the roar of the engine nodding in the direction of the seat in front of me, “cos I haven’t a clue!”
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